


Toast to the Laddies

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Fellatio, Kilts, M/M, Schoolboys, Semi-Public Sex, this is where the kink begins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where exactly does Sherlock's kilt kink come from, anyway? John uses his Epiphany privileges to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toast to the Laddies

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this "underage" because Sherlock is 14 when he witnesses...what he's about to witness. Also, mention of underage masturbation.
> 
> Shh...

“So, king for a day, John?”

 

“Yes. I expect you to do the washing-up and possibly even make me tea.”

 

“I’m not an indentured servant, you know.”

 

“Oh, I’m aware.”

 

Sherlock does make tea, though, and even serves it. There’s sugar in his cup, but John doesn’t mention it.

 

“I think you should tell me a story.”

 

“Well, once upon a time…”

 

“I want to know something about you, Sherlock.”

 

“You know everything you need to know about me, John. I’m yours, wholly and completely, as long as you feed me and please me and let me love you.”

 

John rolls his eyes.

“Lovely. You make me sound like a fucking dog.”

 

“Well…” Sherlock starts to say something horrible, but John raises his eyebrow and puts on his Captain Watson face.

 

“Don’t make me tell you what to do, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock shivers in a very gratifying way. John really must remember to try that more often.

 

“Fine. If you must. What kind of story?

 

“Your kilt kink-because you have one, don’t try and tell me you don’t- where does it come from?”

 

“Oh. That.”

 

“Yes, that. Now tell.” John settles back in his chair with anticipation.

 

“I was sent away to school, you know, but later than most boys, at 12. This godforsaken place always had a Burns supper, complete with the obligatory poem, haggis, and bagpipes.” Here, Sherlock stops and shudders, delicately. “Bagpipes. Awful things. Even whiskey-which we did not get- can’t make bagpipes bearable.”

 

“As you can imagine, I was not the pupil most amenable to assemblies. Classes were bad enough.” John raises his eyebrows, not at all surprised.

 

“You don’t say.”

 

“Sarcasm. So unbecoming. I was, however, and I was usually able to get out of things I didn’t want to get out of. The year I was fourteen, however, I had an unusually intelligent house master, and instead of depriving me of the Burns supper for bad behaviour, he made me go.”

 

John has to laugh at the mixture of disgust and admiration on Sherlock’s face.

 

“I was stuck through most of the dinner, because the housemaster had me as close to him as it was possible to be, only a table away, and of course he did not acquiesce to my repeated requests to leave the room. ‘I am confident that you can hold it, Holmes’,” Here Sherlock rolls his eyes again, “Smug bastard.

 

“Finally, though, he was asked up to read the final prayer, and I was able to disappear. I got as far as the boys’ toilet on the second floor…”

 

“But,” John interrupts, “why didn’t you just go to your room?”

 

Sherlock looks just a touch abashed.

 

“Well, I was…playing…cloak and dagger.” His mouth twists. “I was young for my age in many respects, both emotionally and physically.

 

“In any case, I had just hidden in one of the stalls when the door banged open. I jumped up on the toilet seat so that I wouldn’t be spotted…”

 

“An old spy trick?” John can’t help himself. The idea of Sherlock playing, at school, and doing many of the things he and his friends had done, is simply too novel for him to process.

 

“Exactly. It’s still very useful, you know, someti-” Sherlock halts again, “John, you are mocking me.”

 

“Only the very smallest bit, Sherlock, and you know you deserve it for being such a dick to me most of the time.” Sherlock’s lower lip sticks out nevertheless. “Belt up and tell me the rest of the story.”

 

“Very well. But your comment has been duly noted.

 

“It was one of the bagpipers, a young man of about twenty, from the village near the school, and our maths master, who wasn’t much older. They came in together but didn’t talk, so I set my eye to the crack between the door of the stall to see what they were doing.”

 

“I can probably guess.”

 

“Anderson could probably have guessed. They were leaning up against the sink, kissing frantically, and the master already had his hand up the piper’s kilt. At first, I was a bit confused, but when the master dropped to his knees and lifted the kilt, it all made sense. More than sense. I had known I wasn’t interested in girls, not the way the other boys talked about them, but as soon as I saw the master wrap his hand around the piper’s cock, I knew what I was really interested in. When he took it in his mouth, I was gone; I nearly came in my pants.”

 

“Oh,” said John, a bit faint with the idea, “And what did you do next?”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

 

“What do you think, John? I stayed quiet until they’d left, and then I had the most glorious wank of my life.”

 

John snorts.

 

“And did it change your opinion of the maths master, then?”

 

“Not exactly. He was still a dullard in the classroom. Doesn’t mean I didn’t wank over him, though.”

 

“What about the piper?”

 

“Less. I don’t remember much about what he looked like above the waist.”

 

“Did it matter?”

 

The edge of Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

 

“I think so. The maths master…the maths master appealed to me more, physically.”

 

“What did he look like?

 

“He was small, sandy blond, and stocky.”

 

John cuts his eyes at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, I see. So this is you getting back at me for Sholto, eh? Comparing me to a short, blond dullard that sucks cock?”

 

“If the shoe fits…”

 

“Just see how much you get it from now on.”

 

John crosses his arms, fuming. Then something else occurs to him.

 

“Wait. You bastard! So that’s why you were so amenable to being sucked off in the bathroom at Mycroft’s Christmas party! You knew I would come for you after you kissed me in front of the crowd!”

 

“And so you did, John,” Sherlock smiles, slowly.

 

“You know bloody well what I mean, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“I do. But you enjoyed it nonetheless.”

 

“You could have told me it was a fantasy.”

 

“I could have. But it would have been so much less interesting.”

 

“Fine. Fine. So I am an instrument for pleasure.”

 

“And so much more.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Point for me then?”

 

John preserves his silence indefinitely.

**Author's Note:**

> Robbie Burns Day festivities are in honour of the Scottish poet Robert Burns. The suppers usually follow a very traditional pattern, including piping in the haggis, toasts, reading specific poems, etc.


End file.
